Fire Ants
by Rosemary For Remembrance
Summary: Plot gap filler: Boromir meets with some difficulties on the way to Imladris and finds help in unexpected places. No slash, no sex, no sues. UPDATE June 27, 07
1. Chapter 1

Fire Ants

By Rosemary For Remembrance

"One move out of you and I'll _tie _you down! Just stay put there and don't fuss."

For a moment Boromir believed he was back in Minas Tirith, in the Houses of Healing, under the watchful eye of that old crone, Ioreth. The tone of the disembodied voice was similar; curt, chiding and superior, but nothing else about the two compared. Where Ioreth's voice was squawking and rapid, this one was slow, calm and low. Memories of the quest returned to Boromir's hazy mind, and with the returned consciousness came a fiery, burning, stinging sensation over the entirety of the dorsal side of his body. "Where am I?" Boromir croaked, his own harsh, pained voice surprising him.

"In my house, and a sight better situation than I found you in…" The voice sounded again. Now more fully awake, Boromir heard the sounds of shuffling feet and other movement, though he still had no sight of whom he spoke to. He lay, he realized, flat on his stomach on a rough, straw-packed mattress, covered to the waist with a light blanket. Trying to remember, his thoughts drifted back as far as he could force them.

It was pouring. The sturdy gray he'd ridden since he'd stopped at Edoras was as irritable and miserable as he was and as cold. The wind had picked up as the sun sank behind the hills and the scrub brush and sparse plant life the borders of Rohan and Dunland, almost over the Gap of Rohan, afforded little protection. Seeking a semi-sheltered place to make camp, Boromir dismounted the gray and made his way to a rocky little hill, where he'd hopefully find some break from the biting wind and driving rain. Lucky for him, he'd found just the spot. Hidden from prying eyes, just below the saddle of two little hills was a shallow cave. The path that led up to it was steep, and there was not much more than a few feet at the mouth of it before the land dropped off into a steep ditch. Praising providence, Boromir dismounted the gray, Hasudel, and led him up the steep track. A fire was out of the question, for there was no dry fodder about. After pulling the tack off of Hasudel and rubbing him down, Boromir spread out his blanket on the dry ground sheltered by the little alcove and tried to get some sleep.

He awoke to the most painful sensation he'd felt in a lifetime of soldiering. A thousand tiny needles were stinging him at once. Instantly awake but very disoriented, he staggered out into the rain, tripped on a stone, and plunged head first into the ditch.

That was all Boromir could remember. Lying there on his stomach, he mentally checked himself over. The skin of his scalp, the backs of his arms, his shoulders, back, and lower burned like he'd rolled in nettles. Under the stinging of his scalp, he felt the more familiar dull pain of a physical blow. "I suppose anyone could set their blanket down on an anthill and not know it in this rain, but if you plan to survive out on the road in these parts, you'll have to be more careful young man." _Young man. _Boromir was hardly a stripling lad anymore. How long had it been since he'd been called that? Years, at least. He certainly felt like a raw recruit at the moment. _Stupid, stupid, stupid mistake! _He reconciled never to make the same again, and let the matter be. Brow beating himself over his idiocy and carelessness would solve nothing. Boromir gently turned his head towards the voice. The skin on the back of his neck protested, but he was tired of listening to a disembodied voice. The gray light of a soggy, still raining morning filtered through gaps in hide-covered windows, but the majority of the light in the little cottage, more of a hut really, came from a cheerful, if smoky fire. Bathed in tongues of that light was a short, stocky woman of how many years Boromir could not quite tell. Her once-blonde, gray hair was swept up away from her face and secured in a roll behind her head with what looked like age-yellowed bone combs. Her dress was simple, brown homespun. Behind her and close to the fire was a shaggy, mangy old wolfhound bitch. Her ears pricked when she saw the stranger awake and her mistress suddenly moving about and making noises. Finding no immediate danger, she set her head back down on her paws, but kept a weather eye on the new stranger.

"Who are you?" was probably the most prudent question to ask first, so out of the many running through Boromir's head that was the one he asked.

"My name is Hildláf." The woman answered. Hildláf busied herself mixing something in an old pewter bowl. "Don't bother asking anything else. You'll wear yourself out. Like beestings, the poison in fire ant bites, in large amounts, slows the body down. Don't bother exhausting yourself." Another stir of the mixture, the smell of which Boromir did not like at all, and Hildláf stepped closer. Boromir recoiled.

"Don't you worry. This isn't to eat. Your stomach would reject anything put in it just now." She sat down on the edge of the rough pallet and poured the creamy substance over Boromir's red, swollen back, set the bowl down, and spread the substance with her hands over his neck, arms, and shoulders. Boromir gasped then sighed. At first touch, the substance seemed to freeze, but after a moment it was strangely numbing. When she reached to tug the blanket down, Boromir moved to stop her, which he regretted afterwards. "Tsh, tsh," she soothed, "I have children your age, and they children of their own. I've soothed more hurts in more places more times than I know how to count." Boromir supposed what little modesty he had wouldn't suffer. Though he'd lived as a part of an army for a long time and been seen by various people in various situations of undress, he felt more than a little embarrassed at his compromising situation.

"There, all settled." Hildláf raised the blanket back to waist level and stepped back, wiping wrinkled hands on an old apron. "I suppose the least I could ask for is your name, soldier."

"Boromir." He responded thankfully, omitting his rank and station. "How did you know I was a soldier?"

"I've known a few in my time; you were easy to figure out. I was young _once_." One of her blue eyes winked. Boromir could imagine. In her prime she must have been pretty enough. He could see the influence of Rohirric bloodlines in her face and coloring, though her build was shorter and more compact than most Rohirrim he'd ever encountered. She waited as he studied her. "My mother was a Dunlending, if that's what you were wondering." She remarked stoically.

Boromir averted his eyes, but he did not apologize for his scrutiny. "You live here alone?"

"There're Haunwyn and Cuanil to keep me company." She said cheerfully. The dog's head lifted at the mention of her name and the name of her pup, now grown, out about in the weather. Crazy pup! "Besides them, I've been here since my husband died and my children left in search of better things than the legacy of a poor charcoal burner." Hildláf put the empty mixing bowl into a deep basin by the window and washed her hands. "This place wasn't as remote as it is now when I was younger. Since then, some of the folks who used to live nearby have moved to better-populated areas. The borders aren't as safe as they once were. I was surprised to find you out there; we don't get travelers through here very often."

Boromir almost questioned her use of "we," but then remembered that some widows, long married, instinctively referred to themselves as part as a couple, even in their solitude. Boromir took a moment of silence to analyze his heroine, as it was. Out in the borderlands, all alone, providing for herself; how had Boromir ever thought his own courage stronger than that of normal, simple people? How was the steady courage of a widow on her own, facing trials every day, any more developed than the courage of a soldier whose courage lasted him for the duration of a battle? The soldier oft returned to a safe, snug barracks or a fortified camp at the end of the day. Hildláf had no such luxury.

"How did you find me, or get me out of that ditch?" Boromir asked. He was curious to know how an old woman had hauled him who knows how far through such inclement weather.

"Cuanil, that's Haunwyn's pup, sniffed you out when that pretty gray of yours bolted straight up to my door and nickered just as loud as you please. I wondered what such a nice, long boned gelding was doing out here alone and with such a nice bridle too! I followed Cuanil out and found you at the bottom of that ditch, pale as death. That gray has such nice, strong legs, I thought I'd put him to work, so I looped the lead through your arms and hauled you up."

"My thanks to Cuanil, your ingenuity and Hasudel's compliance." It was fortunate that the horses of Rohan were so well trained. Even by their nature, the steeds of Rohan were spirited and mighty yet they were biddable enough for those who knew how to handle them. "Though he must not have liked all that pulling on his bridle." He reasoned. To pull the heavy man up through the strength of the horse's neck, Boromir imagined even the enduring Hasudel would not have enjoyed that treatment.

"Oh no!" Hildláf chuckled, "I may live on the borderlands now, but my uncle was a rider of Rohan in the Westfold. Besides," she got up for a moment to peek out a hole in one of the hide window coverings, "we women of Rohan know just as much about horses as any of the men. I found the long lead you had in your bags in your little camp there, put his saddle on and cinched it quick, then I tied the lead to the saddle bow and then looped it through your arms." She clucked absently at the condition of the weather and turned back to the weary soldier. "Might've taken me longer, but I knew that success on a first attempt was more likely with a compliant horse! Speaking of the beauty, you needn't worry after him. We have a milking shed, and I'm sure Hasudel, you said his name was, will be fine right there next to Dunlie." The old cow still gave enough milk for one solitary old woman to use and she was Hildláf's only company out there, besides the dogs. "I went back while you were still asleep and brought in most of your tack; it's wet through but hopefully no worse for wear."

"You went back out _there_, just for my _tack_?" Boromir was incredulous. Now that he looked at her, her hair _was _the dark gold that straw colored hair turned when wet. A long, damp-heavy cloak hung on a peg by the fire, the first in a row of pegs that held other assorted garments up to dry. _Mine. _Boromir realized. "How long have I been asleep?" If there was one thing Boromir hated, it was missing time. How long had he laid there unconscious? How long had he slept there on Hildláf's rough pallet?

"No need to get upset." She said as she eased herself down into a chair by the fire. Stretching her legs out in front of her comfortably, she picked up what looked like a pair of trousers to mend. Boromir entertained for a moment that perhaps she still kept her husband's apparel in good condition, but he'd observed little eccentricity in Hildláf and even less of those ridiculous romantic sentiments that would drive a woman to engage in that kind of behavior. After some study in the dim firelight, by the size, color and general make of the garment; he could tell that they were his. "The rest of your clothes are still wet clear through- heavy cloth always takes a while to get the damp out, and that undercoat of yours! _Far _too long by half, and of such fancy make! You'd think you were going to a town faire in it!" The old woman shook her head and _tsk_ed, as mothers and grandmothers are like to do. Boromir had thought that long red robe-like coat one of his least decorative; it seemed the simple old woman thought otherwise. "There's _that _thing, then that long shirt, fine stitching on that, your wife's a fine hand with a needle no doubt." she winked one crow footed eye across the room, but her eyes were almost green with envy when she talked about the embroidery. Boromir did not interrupt to correct her about the assumption of the existence of a spouse. "Those leather vambraces, with the silver inlaid, fine pieces of work, those! Cuanil wanted to have a chew at those, soon as he saw them, but I saved them for you. What _I _want to know is why a man needs a mail hauberk _and_ a leather surcoat! You'd think you were riding off to _war!_" She laughed to herself for a moment, stilled, dropped her mending slowly and looked back at Boromir seriously. "There's no war coming, is there?" Her eyes were fearful. She'd known orc raids in her time, and the savagery of wild Dunlendings, kin yes, but kinship meant nothing when one of one's women attached herself to a straw-haired horseman.

Boromir was loath to answer. Hildláf lived peacefully here and as far as he could tell, without fear. The elements, a sick cow, wolves, those things Hildláf could handle and well, but war was something a lone woman and her two dogs could not survive through alone, be she young or old. He answered carefully. "I cannot tell you 'yea' or 'nay. I cannot speak for Theoden. I have heard rumors about the White Wizard, Saruman, in Isengard not too far from here, but rumors are not definitive. Gondor faces war every day; we have only a tentative control over our own borders, even Osgiliath is not fully in our control." Boromir did not know if the secluded woman knew anything about Gondor or recent events therein, but she would understand that to be unable to hold one of one's own cities was not promising. "I am…" Could he tell her? Spies lingered everywhere and this close to Isengard... did Hildláf survive out here alone by the grace of the White Wizard? Whatever Hildláf's bloodlines or her means of survival, it was a far leap for Boromir to think of her as a spy for Saruman. "I am on a journey, nay, a quest really." He waited for her to laugh or snort; noble knights riding off on quests were rare these days. "I know the name of the place I'm going and that it lies to the north." _A veritable treasure trove of useful information Oh, __this__ bodes well!_ Boromir thought sarcastically. He supposed it did not bode well if he was bitter about the quest already, hardly outside of well-known lands! "If I find what I seek, I may be able to give the free men of the south a fighting chance against our enemies. The journey is perilous and I have far yet to go."

He said as little as he could about the reason behind the journey, about the dreams and the arguments and the debates and the final, executive decision on Boromir's part, as the elder, to take up the task. "As you have doubtlessly found out already." Hildláf pointed out in all seriousness. "I won't ask you the details, you're tight-lipped about it already, so I won't pry." She nodded to herself and wiped her hands nervously on her apron. She stood again, set the mending aside, and paced slowly, as if unsure of what to do. Finally she picked up a cup and filled it with water from a fired clay jug. "You should drink. Your body is going to crave water; it'll be using a lot of your own to fight that poison." She said sagely and approached his pallet with the cup.

"You've hardly sat down this whole time, you must be tired. I can drink later, take some rest." Boromir said in his most gentle, charming voice. He suspected the experienced old woman had put something in the cup to make him sleep, and it went against his inner nature to take his medicine when given to him. When it came to medicine, leeches or doctors, he simply _had _to be difficult! Yet he still wondered why the woman, no doubt of lesser energy than one in her prime, would seem so restless.

"Don't you mind me." She sat down and helped Boromir roll onto his side and prop himself up to drink. "I don't sleep much anymore. Doctoring you has given me something to do, at least. I usually just sit up and sew, and these old hands are hardly fit for _that _much sewing." Arthritic hands plagued her, but that was the worst of her ailments, for which she thanked providence daily. "Slowly now." Hildláf ordered and set the cup at his lips, holding the cup for the most part but letting his weak hand guide along side it. She was right. Boromir felt more refreshed than he thought he'd be after the nourishing cup. "You've been awake far longer than most should after such a day, and with a nasty bump to the head, too!" She helped Boromir back down gently and readjusted his blanket. She pulled it higher over his shoulders and though his inflamed skin protested, the warmth was welcome. The early ours of the morning were still cold. Despite himself, Boromir started to nod and soon he was asleep.

Silently enjoying her own little victory, Hildláf set the cup aside and washed it thoroughly. She'd used a special mixture she'd developed over the years to put the tall man to sleep. It worked well on fussing babies, sick youths and suffering old men. She patted Haunwyn on the head when she sat back down in her chair next to the fire and asked the dog merrily, "Well, old dear, what do you think of our company?"

The dog looked across the little room to the sleeping stranger and lifted curious brow muscles and ears at the same time. Said human smelled far different than her mistress' horsemen kin, who'd she'd sniffed only a few times and a long time ago, but once smelled, a scent stuck forever.

"Yes, I know. I don't suppose we'll ever learn more than we know already about him, but who wants to know everything?"

To Be Continued….

Next Chapter: Cuanil and Trouble


	2. Cuanil and Trouble

Author's Note: Only two reviews thus far for Chapter 1, but I've decided not to let this fic die so easily! I think that I will only continue this for one more chapter. I have an introduction; this chapter is the meat of it, and one more chapter as a denouement should tie things up nicely. I was planning to split this chapter into two, but I've decided to keep it as is.

Also, Boromir is described briefly in this fic (from Cuanil's point of view) as having dark hair. This is true to book canon description. In all other ways, however, I'd have to say that when I think of Boromir, I think of Sean Bean!

Another note: The mention of Boromir's childhood that involves dogs was lovingly swiped from Evendim, the undisputed mistress of Boromir-centric AU fan fiction.

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Fire Ants

By Rosemary For Remembrance

Chapter 2: Cuanil and Trouble

The scrawny, shaggy gray wolfhound had ranged these hills far and wide, both with his dam at his side and on his own. Despite the myriad smells wafting up his nose from the dead pheasant that he gripped in his mouth, Cuanil had no trouble locating the familiar scents of home, the old cow he'd tormented as a puppy, the smoky fire that his mistress cooked over, the various spots he'd marked as his own. Then of course, there was the big gray animal. He'd only smelled something similar once or twice before, but this new thing was still as unfamiliar as the dark-haired thing he'd scented out for his mistress. When it dawned on Cuanil that he'd left his mistress and aging dam alone with this strange creature, he picked up his easy pace to a quick trot.

Boromir woke to the strange and uncomfortable sensation of something cold and wet probing near his neck. Half awake, he made a move to swat at the offending thing and was rewarded with the sudden, alarming sound of a bark. With his eyes now open, Boromir turned his head to find a younger pup, assumingly Cuanil, with his forepaws on Boromir's raised pallet and an inquisitive look on his long face. Within moments, Haunwyn was up from her fireside spot and at Cuanil's side. Boromir hoped the older bitch had enough sense to let her pup know that Boromir was no threat. Cuanil's wet nose descended again, this time sniffing behind Boromir's ear unreservedly. Owning hounds himself, Boromir knew it was best not to make any sudden movements or sounds, just to let the curious dog continue his investigation. He wondered worriedly where Hildláf had run off to; if Cuanil suddenly smelled something he did not like, what was to save the immobile Boromir from a torn out throat?

His heart nearly jumped into his vulnerable throat when the dog suddenly yipped and bounded up onto the pallet and over the prone man to his other side. It was even more surprising (though relieving), when the dog laid down and set his head on his paws. All Boromir could do was turn his head from one side to the other. Haunwyn ended her sniffing with a satisfied snort and returned to her rug next to the fire. The man of Gondor was stupefied. Apparently, Cuanil had sniffed something he approved of, and taken a liking to the Captain-General! The door creaked and Boromir turned his head the other direction in time to see Hildláf coming through, balancing a basket on one hip. "You're awake I see, and it seems you've made a friend!" The old woman chuckled as she set the basket on the little table. "I've just come back from the chicken coop; we'll have eggs for breakfast, oh!" she smiled when she caught sight of the dead pheasant on the hearth, "and pheasant, it seems, for lunch. Thank you Cuanil." She raised her voice and looked over Boromir to her younger dog. Boromir shivered. Cuanil was damp from the rain the night before and the mist of the morning. He also smelled as all wet dogs do, which made Boromir's nose crinkle up in distaste. Wet dog was almost as bad as wet horse, almost.

"I thought he had it in for me," Boromir admitted, keeping a weather eye on the dog next to him, "when I woke up with his nose buried in my neck." Hildláf laughed as she put the pan over the fire and cracked the eggs into it. "Who, Cuanil?" She shook her head. "That dog hasn't a mean bone in his body. He might be aloof and choosy, but he's a fine dog. Haunwyn and I have made sure that he's grown up minding his manners and not biting before I give the word." Boromir, for one, could imagine the large hound, hardly a pup any more, chasing after any malefactor his mistress so much as pointed at. Large, inquisitive eyes rolled in his direction when he looked back at Cuanil.

"Here, let me look at you again while the eggs cook." Hildláf turned away from the fire and drew the blanket away from Boromir's now painfully itchy skin. "Is it bothering you much?"

"No." Boromir grunted in reply. It was simply an issue of mind over matter. If he didn't mind, then it wouldn't matter!

"Tush," she chided, "no need to put up that act with me young man. Here, I've made some more of that unction I put on you earlier. It will help some." Boromir recoiled. He already stank of dirt, sweat, horse and that vile stuff she'd put on him. What he needed now was a _bath. _

"I'd like to wash a little at least," he tried to suggest, "if it's possible." He _had _been on the road some time; the last time he'd bathed fully was at an inn on the very edge of Gondorian territory.

"Hmmph," she snorted, "who do you suppose will haul all that water and heat it, to boot? Besides," she gave him a long look over, "you've been lying like that for some time; moving about is like to be painful. You can do without a bath for a little while yet. As soon as you're strong enough to haul the water yourself, I'll let you soak as long as you'd like." Boromir heard her mutter something about the highborn needing baths every time they got their hands dirty, or some such thing. It was hardly just his hands that were dirty. His own odor was beginning to offend _him_, and he was sure that in time Cuanil would get up to find less pungent sleeping arrangements. "At least help me up, Hildláf, I tire of this position." He tried to sound grateful for her help thus far, but to him, the request came out far too much like a whimper for his liking. He simply could not _stand_ lying in the same position for so long and he desperately needed a change of scenery.

"All right, all right, have it your way. Do not blame me when you land yourself on your sore behind." Hildláf chided and helped him role onto his side, then get his feet over the side of the raised pallet and awkwardly sit up. The blood rushed from his head immediately and it was all he could do to keep from falling right back down. "I'll get over it in a moment," Boromir held her off with an outstretched arm, "wait." True to his word, Boromir was able to sit up straight after a moment. The enflamed skin on his thighs and behind protested the sudden pressure but he ignored it. "Give me a hand." He grabbed one of Hildláf's hands and slowly rose while the other hand gathered the blanket around him and held it closed at his hip. "That's not so bad." He took a deep breath and grinned at the old woman, who was no doubt smarting for being proved wrong.

"Yes, yes, go on and grin then. Stand there for a moment on your own, your eggs are burning!" She let go of his hand and hurried over to the fire to take the pan off and set it on a stand on the table. "I think I could manage my trousers now, if you don't mind." Boromir said as he eyed the freshly mended pair hanging from the peg near the fire.

"Oh, aye, _wearing _them might be easy enough, but putting them _on,_ now that's another matter!" She shook her spatula in his direction as she fussed with the dishes. "Do you think you can manage to sit in a chair?" Hildláf set a pair of plates and forks out on her little dining table then scooped two fried eggs onto each.

"For fried eggs, I could sit a horse like this!" He laughed, knotted the blanket awkwardly at his hip and limped over to the table. He'd have abandoned all propriety and scooped up the eggs with his fingers, were it not for Hildláf's bemused stare. He cleared his throat and picked up his fork. "My thanks again, madam." He nodded almost formally before he took his first bite. Hildláf watched him as he ate, not quite hungry herself.

"It's odd." She said suddenly. Boromir looked up at her with a mouthful of eggs. He did not speak, but his eyes were questioning. "I was surprised when I saw Cuanil lying there with you. We don't get passerby around here very often, but when we do, he's not very fond of the men folk. Understandable of course, since he knows only me and his dam as his own. He barks, he whines, he cringes or outright runs away, but you," a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, "you he sniffed out and likes you, for some reason. Of course there's no knowing _why_, he is a _dog_ of course, and I suppose they take to their own." She joked at his expense and he nearly choked on the tea she'd set before him earlier.

"That's not so very surprising," Boromir considered. Hildláf had meant it as a joke, but there was some truth to it. "I am often told that as a baby, I visited often with the litter of puppies born to my father's bitch hound. He often said that I'd crawl into their big basket and fall asleep there." He wondered if there was some connection between those early moments of his life and these later, darker times. Like as not, Cuanil had simply sniffed out something he liked or picked up on his dam's and his mistress's acceptance of the Gondorian and set his reservations by the wayside. Something touched his elbow and he looked down to find Cuanil there, setting his large head on Boromir's thigh.

"Well, _that _is strange!" Hildláf got up and looked around the table. Haunwyn rolled her eyes from her comfortable spot fireside to make sure her strangely acting pup wasn't causing trouble.

"Perhaps he's come a-begging?" He picked up a scrap of egg and held it in front of the dog's nose. One look in those cloudy brown eyes told Boromir that Cuanil wasn't interested. "I can't figure it out." Boromir patted the wiry head, completely relaxed and content as it rested there. He couldn't figure out what had driven the dog to take to him so. He'd never touched or petted him, never handed him a scrap, nothing! What inspired this sudden display of affection?

Over the next day and the following Cuanil was like a shadow to Boromir as he recovered. He was glad of the company as he limped about slowly outside and out of Hildláf's range of sight or hearing while she went about her various daily chores. Were he to come to any other injury, he knew Cuanil would run to fetch her. The itching and burning of his skin subsided slowly and Boromir knew it was about time to collect on the promise Hildláf had made to him.

"You are out of your skull young man." Hildláf shook her head as she helped him move a large, beaten copper tub from its previous location in her old storage shed.

"If only I _were,_ Hildláf. I am so ripe I can hardly _stand _myself!" He said as he picked up the two buckets she was able to provide.

"You are in no condition to be hauling heavy buckets about. Your skin might feel better, but your body has a lot of healing yet to do. What of your head wound? What if you start to feel faint and fall headlong down the well?" Hildláf wrung her hands and fretted as she followed pace for pace behind him as he headed for the door. Boromir could tell that she'd still retained that habit mothers have of constant worrying.

He quickly outpaced her then called back over his shoulder, as Cuanil bounded after, "Don't worry, Cuanil will be with me!"

There was an old well at the edge of what Hildláf had once called her property that her family had shared with another, now long since gone. It was only a short walk, but by the time he'd gone back and forth several times with full buckets, he felt even more admiration for the old woman's fortitude. As Boromir carried the buckets, one in either hand, back and forth from the house to the well, Cuanil circled around him, playfully yipping or dodging back and forth, snapping at flies or other bugs that passed over his head. It took Boromir the better part of an hour to fill the tub to a satisfactory level. Even then, he had to wait for the fire to heat the big tub to some temperature warmer than frigid.

Hildláf had set out drying cloths for him and a blanket to bundle up in afterwards then made her way to the milking shed to do battle with the old cow. Cuanil stayed with Boromir while Haunwyn followed after her mistress.

Boromir hissed as he sank into the blissful but steaming warmth of the tub. Cuanil watched nearby, wary of the whole process. Get wet all over, on purpose? Not for this hound dog! "Yes well _you_ may smell any way you please, as a dog. We Captain-Generals have to at least smell passably clean, outside of battle." Cuanil quirked an unconvinced eyebrow and sank back down to rest his head on his paws. Boromir let his eyes slip closed and took a moment to relax as he was enveloped by warmth. Before the water cooled he picked up the scrap of soap Hildláf left him and rid himself of the grime he'd accumulated over his travels and misadventures. He scrubbed his hair and scalp, freeing the last bits of clinging dried blood.

Just as he was about to stand, Cuanil's ears pricked up and the dog tensed as he focused intently on the door. "What is it boy?" Boromir looked at the dog, suddenly on guard. Horses and dogs, Boromir knew, had senses humans could only dream of and it was best to heed them. There was no time to dress. He wrapped the blanket around his middle, tucked it into itself and picked his sword up from the hearth were it had been propped against his pack. He drew silently as he heard heavy footsteps outside the door and strange, deep, but human voices. _Definitely not Hildláf. _

The door swung open slowly. Whoever they were, they'd seen a fire going inside but assumed the old woman to be asleep. They hadn't counted on the defenseless woman being safe and oblivious in the milking shed, nor on a battle hardened soldier lying in wait. Boromir waited behind the door and out of sight as the three men, Dunlendings by the look and smell of them, entered warily. Cuanil deepened his growling as he pointed stiffly at the intruders and began to bark loudly as they reached forward, trying to entice him with what Boromir assumed was the Dunland version of "nice doggy".

Cuanil had had enough. Once the hand was close enough, the dog released his pent up energy and lunged, ready to bite. He'd hunted most of his young life all through these hills and his reaction time was quick and decisive. A human's reaction time is no more or less than that of a hare or pheasant, so Cuanil got what he reached for. Sharp teeth clamped down on the man's hand and before he could lash out to detach the animal, Boromir sprung out from behind the door, got in close and smashed the pommel of his sword into the bridge of the man's nose, breaking it instantly. He stumbled back through the narrow doorway, falling atop one of his friends. Boromir didn't waste a second. While the first was occupied with Cuanil and his broken nose and the second was trapped beneath his friend, Boromir engaged the now much more prepared third man. His short sword may have been crude, but the Dunlending knew how to use it. It took Boromir time to get past the man's defense, but once he managed to graze his opponent, the outmatched brigand turned tail and ran. Finding the only sword-bearing member of their small raiding party suddenly gone, the two on the ground picked themselves up and chased after him, leaving their clubs where they lay. Cuanil chased after.

"Cuanil, heel!" Boromir shouted, and the dog slowed, circled around and ran back barking excitedly. Then he heard the commotion from the direction of the milking shed. He could hear Hildláf shouting something unintelligible, Haunwyn's barking and sharp whinnies from Hasudel. Cuanil bounded from Boromir's side towards the milking shed. Boromir followed as fast as he could while holding the dragging ends of the blanket with one hand, sword in the other.

No subterfuge this time. Boromir's quick scan of the room saw Hildláf in the corner against the wall while Haunwyn's jaws lodged in a man's calf. This Dunlending was young, hardly out of his teens with the barest hint of a beard on his face. He hardly noticed Boromir enter, so painful was Haunwyn's crushing grasp on his leg. He struggled and kicked and fell to the ground, but still she held tight. Finding his work half done, Boromir set the tip of his sword at the youth's throat. Haunwyn relaxed her grip. "Speak the common tongue, lad?" Boromir asked, keeping a fixed glance on the form sprawled out on the ground. As far as Boromir could see, the boy carried no weapon. His query returned only an acidly defiant stare.

"I didn't think so. Either you've no common or you're playing dumb, doesn't matter to me, so long as you behave." Boromir's sword tip never wavered for a moment. "So, you come in here, let your older friends search the house while you try to lift the pretty gray gelding you saw the old woman rescue. You've been keeping watch, but you didn't tell your friends about it, did you? Nor about the soldier that came in with it?" Boromir suspected the youth had waited for the opportune moment to try and steal Hasudel, while his "friends" were busy with the stranger, if he was even still alive, in the house.

"Boromir." Hildláf was suddenly at his elbow with the dogs in tow. Her gaze was fixed on the young Dunlending. "I want to bandage his leg." Boromir was aghast.

"He could have _killed _you!" He argued. One look back at the captive made him realize just how wrong he was. This was no murderer, just a hotheaded boy seeking a thrill and a fancy mount to show off back home. He was a thief, perhaps, but no killer. Boromir lowered his sword slowly, but kept his eyes on the youth and sighed. "Have you some rope in here, or a halter?" He asked. Hildláf took his meaning instantly. The worn out old rope lead to Dunlie's halter, long since tossed aside (the cow hardly left the shed these days) served well to restrain the Dunlending's wrists.

Once the boy was securely tied at the wrists, Boromir bent in close to him, face to face. "You listen well. Even though you deserve a good flogging for trying to steal my horse and a kick in the pants for scaring Hildláf's cow and I daresay _her _half to death, this good woman is going to fix your leg. I take it you're smart enough not to make trouble?" Boromir looked for any sign of recognition in the thief's eyes and found none. "Damn." He cursed and looked aside to think for a moment. He looked to Hildláf. "You don't speak Dunlending, do you?"

The woman seemed almost affronted at first, but then gathered herself together and replied, "A little." She called for the youth's attention and then lapsed into a manner of stilted, strange words. Obviously, it had been a long time since Hildláf had used any of the Dunlending speech.

However garbled her translation of Boromir's warning must have been, it got through. The youth's mouth hung agape, then he nodded vehemently and offered what Boromir assumed must have been his thanks. Hildláf nodded to Boromir, and he helped the Dunlending to his feet and got one of his arms over his broad shoulders. The going back to the cottage was slow, as Boromir had to hold onto the Dunlending with one hand and hold his improvised garment together with the other. By the time they traversed the short distance, the bottom of the blanket was soiled from dragging through the dirt. Cuanil and Haunwyn walked close by, keeping cautious, wary eyes on the new stranger; Cuanil in particular did not like him at all.

* * *

To Be Continued… 


	3. Trust

Notes: Ok, I lied. This won't be the last chapter. Everything kind of winds down in this chapter, but it still needs an epilogue.

This whole fic has become so much more than I originally planned. I thought to write a little gap filler, something just to entertain, but this chapter takes a little leap that I'm not sure I would have considered in the beginning, i.e., this chapter (at least the meat of it) is not the lighthearted stuff of the earlier two. For some reason I had to jump into values and misconceptions; I think I've been reading a bit too much philosophy, or maybe it's just because I'm sick.

Fire Ants

By Rosemary for Remembrance

Chapter 3: Trust

"Ghûn."

The Dunlending continued to say as he gestured to himself. Now fully clothed and seated in Hildláf's rocking chair while she tended the Dunlending on the raised pallet, Boromir focused on petting Cuanil's head while it rested in its now customary spot on his thigh. He was beginning to lose his patience.

"Yes, I understand. Your name is Ghûn." He nodded once more in confirmation and rolled his eyes. "Hildláf, are you almost finished with that dressing?" The boy, or Ghûn, as Boromir realized he should think of him by now, had deep puncture wounds in his left calf where Haunwyn's jaws had clamped down. The older woman gave him another shake of her head and a "Tsk tsk," just as she had the four other times Boromir had asked her the same question. As she quietly conversed with Ghûn in the Dunlending tongue, Boromir tried to keep his suspicious eyes off of the seemingly harmless youth and concentrate on remaining as nonthreatening as possible. Cuanil seemed to pick up on his mood; the adrenaline rush hadn't subsided for either of them. Boromir, for one, wasn't used to watching as his enemies were bandaged up and cared for after a battle (albeit a small one) and Cuanil looked as if he wanted something else to bite. No matter how repentant (and conveniently tied up) Ghûn was, neither dog nor man was ready to stand down his guard. At one point during the course of the evening, Ghûn had reached out to steady the bowl Hildláf had placed precariously on the table for only a moment. This was far too close for comfort for Cuanil, who barked and bared his teeth threateningly. Ghûn looked traumatized.

In Boromir's mind, it was bad enough that the Dunlendings were untrustworthy, aloof, secretive horse-thieves whose allegiances were shady at best. After the events of that night, he'd never be able to travel north through Dunland without constant worry; if this was the behavior of undisciplined, rash youths, what did it say about their elders? How many horse thieves and cutthroats would he have to dodge on his way north, and what about Hildláf? How could he leave, knowing that this wouldn't be the last time she would encounter the Dunlendings? Rash boys with adventure and a pretty prize in mind these might have been, but Boromir knew that there were thieves out there who would kill a beggar for the few coins he'd received in a day; how long would she last against brigands like that? The world was becoming a wilder place by the day, especially in backwater places like Hildláf's old charcoal burner's hut and she wouldn't be able to count on the help of a strange soldier for much longer.

"All finished!" Hildláf's relieved exclamation broke through Boromir's reverie and made Cuanil's ears pick up in surprise. "A night's rest and you'll be able to limp home in the morning," she said in common before she realized it, and then quickly translated for the wounded youth.

Boromir was not pleased with Hildláf's plans for the young man. "Hildláf," he tried to make the old woman see reason, "he mustn't stay here any longer than is necessary. I say he limps home _now_. If he isn't home before morning, his friends will come looking for him." Boromir hoped Hildláf would show more of that prudent sense she had earlier and agree with him. He had no time for misplaced generosity or compassion that could get them both killed.

Hildláf, unfortunately, did not see eye to eye with her rescued soldier. Instead, she attempted to make _him _see reason. "Boromir," she began in that matronly tone that reassured and nearly castrated him at the same time, "the boy's defenseless; he won't make it far in the dark alone. Besides," she busied herself with clearing away the pan of hot water and the extra strips of linen she'd used as bandages, "if his friends come looking for him, I'll just hand him over. There's no reason for any hard feelings and besides; this could finally put me on good terms with the Dunlendings nearby who, as you must realize, are just as much my neighbors as the Rohirrim. They might raid, they might steal, but if I do _this, _they might at least leave me in peace." Hildláf had spent her entire life on the fringes between Rohan and Dunland; she'd been strong for as long as she could and brave, but now, of all things, she was tired. She didn't want to have to worry about staying on her little patch of property, to make sure anything of value was carefully hidden, to listen in the night for the sound of footsteps of the smell of torches.

Ghûn's eyes darted back and forth between the mix-blood woman and the tall, dark-haired man. He knew, even if he didn't speak their strange tongue, that they were arguing about him. He feared the dark haired man's bright sword and his steady hand and at the same time was comforted by the mixed woman's kindness. Had a youth of the straw-haired people trespassed on _their _soil, the Dunlendings would no doubt kill them, sell them, or keep them in captivity. Their people had always kept to themselves, shunning the rule of the golden-haired riders or the gray-eyed kings who came before them. They managed as best they could in isolated groups and times were looking up for them recently, especially while the White Wizard kept his servants from interfering in their affairs.

Boromir, now standing and in the midst of pacing, was oblivious to Ghûn's growing fear and couldn't keep his voice from rising in frustration. "You really think it will be that simple? You aren't so naive Hildláf." He hoped an appeal to her wealth of experience would do the trick. "Ghûn may be just some stupid boy, but his friends _aren't. _They might have been cowards, but one of them was ready to stick me with that crude blade of his; he handled it like he knew how to use it. They were surprised, but they will be ready next time."

Hildláf's tone was cold. "I wouldn't expect a soldier to understand, but sometimes kindnesses are repaid in like kind, even between enemies." She wrung out the wet cloths she'd used to clean Ghûn's wound over the pan, her grip like a vise, her knuckles nearly white.

"Civil enemies, yes," Boromir pleaded on, "but these are not civil people. They will kill you, and then take what they can; you are _expendable_ to them."

"You think you know so much!" Hildláf snapped as she tossed the refuse linen on the floor with a damp slap. "You think you understand me, how I live. You are strong; you might be able to get away with cynical distrust of anything and everything. I'm a weak old woman Boromir; I have to trust in _someone, something._ I have to have faith that this world hasn't gone to the orcs and the dark, wild things I bar my door against at night and no matter how much you might try to remain self-sufficient and keep yourself from relying on the kindness of others, if it weren't for a stranger and her two dogs, you'd still be in that ditch, most likely dead from exposure and your own stubborn _pride!_"

Ghûn looked from man to woman again; he need not know any of their language to feel the weight of the heated words that had just been exchanged. The man looked hurt, the woman seemed angry with herself for her atypical tone but equally as silent. The grey old bitch that'd bitten him hung close around her mistress' legs, while the younger dog whined, shifting intelligent brown eyes from human to human. He didn't know the specifics of their argument, but he knew that it must have concerned him. The man's face was an emotionless mask. He was very still after she'd finished her tirade, but in that moment he walked towards the door and stepped out into the night air, Cuanil following behind. At length, Ghûn broke the silence that seemed to fill the room after he left.

"_I will leave tonight, good-widow. I can tell my people there is nothing worth taking from you, to leave you in peace, that you helped me. Let me go now, so I can stop them from coming back here. It will not be good if they do." _Ghûn only hoped his word would be enough. His three friends _had _entered the hut and had most likely seen that there _were _things worth stealing. Her possessions were neither pretty nor valuable, but they were useful nonetheless.

Hildláf wanted to protest, to tell him to stay and rest, if not for his own good then at least to hold her own against Boromir's unwanted advice, but she could not keep him against his will. Hildláf nodded to Ghûn and helped him stand up. She gave him one of her own walking sticks and it seemed sufficient support. He whispered his thanks and gave her a sad, knowing look. He felt sorry for being the source of strife between her and the dark-haired man. Hildláf watched him walk out the door alone, knowing there was little she could do past that point.

Ghûn did not see the man as he limped towards home until he came to the very edge of what the woman knew as hers. He was seated on the edge of an old well, holding a stick momentarily before he tossed it out into the darkness, Cuanil hot on the pursuit. For a moment, Ghûn was afraid to pass by. The man still had his sword and Ghûn remembered how sharp and bright the tip was at his throat only an hour before. Without knowing the man's tongue, there was no way he could communicate any apology or reassurance. Instead, he paused in front of the seated man and held out his right hand.

Even with an aching, itching, pustule covered dorsal epidermis, Boromir managed to achieve his usual swift pace without much trouble. All he cared about at that moment was putting as much distance between him and the old woman he'd come to think of as matronly, experienced and wise. He couldn't help thinking about what repercussions her actions would have; what if she was killed, the two dogs cut down in her defense, the poor, inane old cow slaughtered for its likely stringy meat, her neat little cottage torched? She knew as well as he did that it was a definite possibility and yet she refused to do the right thing and listen to him. Hildláf would become just another one of the numerous people he'd failed to save. So many times he'd tried, he'd fought and bled and starved, fighting to give people just that extra bit of time they needed to escape, and what did they do? They waited, they bided their time, they stuck their heads in the ground and their feet in the mud, barricaded themselves in their homes, for what? The misguided notion that they'd be spared, that the enemy would just move past, ignore them and leave them be? It didn't happen that way, it never did. His back protested violently as he bent down to pick up a stick as he made his way towards the well. Why he'd headed that way he didn't know. He took a minute to sit on the ledge and rest from the exertion then tossed the stick into the shadows created by the full moonlight. Cuanil bounded off, trusting his friend to wait for him to return with the stick.

He heard the crunch of uneven footsteps on the ground; so the Dunlending _was _leaving that night! He didn't know if it was because Hildláf had given in or due to Ghûn's own initiative, but either way he felt oddly humbled. He hoped though, that the boy would continue to limp past. Boromir knew that Ghûn was obviously aware of his distrust, so why in the name of the Tree was the boy offering his hand?

Elbows braced against his thighs, Boromir looked up at the youth, backlit by the full moon. He couldn't make out his features; in that light he could have been male, female, Dunlending, Rohirrim, Gondorian, a man of the north, or a human, an elf or a dwarf, for that matter. The Captain-General stood and towered over the would-be horse thief. From this vantage point, Boromir could see his face. His expression was worried, but hopeful. His hand remained suspended; waiting for a sign of forgiveness, acceptance, or blessing, Boromir didn't know which, but he knew the youth wouldn't leave without it.

Cuanil returned and dropped the stick at both of their feet, waiting only for _his _sign of acceptance – another toss. He looked up and back and forth from the man he'd accepted to the man who waited.

"_They live the only way they know how."_

"_One could say the same for orcsThey are __**still **__our enemies, Faramir."_

"_I __**know**__, Boromir. They make a conscious decision to do evil, but they are still __**men**__." _

Ghûn felt a strong, steady, calloused hand enclose his own. The grip was strong, firm, but it did not inflict pain. The grip did not condemn or say "I approve," the grip said "I know."

Hildláf watched from within the dimly lit perimeter around her hut as two silhouettes shook hands. She hid a secret smile with her hand as the shorter figure reached down to pick something up off of the ground, mere inches from the paws of the dog, and tossed it away into the night, the lighthearted spirit not far behind. Ghûn's figure slowly grew smaller and obscured against the night as he continued on his way as Boromir stood sentinel and watched his departure.

Boromir showed no signs of surprise when Ghûn's hand passed by Cuanil's nose without as much as a growl from the canine. Just as Cuanil had studied Boromir and accepted him in his own way, so too had Boromir passed that acceptance on to this fellow stranger; an impermanent figure in the daily life of the dog, but necessary to find a place for anyway. When Ghûn's shape had completely disappeared and Cuanil had returned with the elusive stick which was so like all of the others, save for the mark of his friends' scent upon it, Boromir turned towards the hut, not with the heavy heart of a man who must make an apology, but with the lightened spirit of a man who had learned something new.

TBC...


End file.
